The Journey
by myBlueprints
Summary: Sequel to The Follower. Ichabod and Abbie in England, and family issues that need to be resolved.
1. Chapter 1

Their room at the inn, provided for their first breaths of relief in three months. It meant that they could have real privacy at last, not the poor excuse for privacy their cabin on the ship provided. It also meant that they could have proper baths, well deserved rest and proper food. When he first travelled from England, the journey didn't bother him as much, as he was alone. Alone in the sense that he didn't have to deeply worry about the comfort of another being that he was travelling with. This time however, it was very different, three months proved to be an eternity for him, he thought they would reach England only when they were much, much older. The worst of all things that came from the journey, was the intimacy that he and his wife didn't have at all. Even when they did get a moment alone, they weren't truly alone, their three-year old son, was always with them. Abbie didn't trust leaving him to roam around on the ship on his own, and neither did he; they feared something would happen to their only child.

From the harbour, he tried to make things as easy for Abbie and his son as possible, carrying their luggage to the carriage, keeping a hold of the little boy in the carriage ride while Abbie leaned on his shoulder for a little relief. The journey had been equally bad for all of them, their son included. For the little boy especially, the journey seemed endless, he would daily ask his parents when he could go outside to play. He was an adventurous explorer who had interest to know the world around him, he wasn't one to sit inside and be still. To say they were tired wasn't enough, and although Abbie never complained one bit, he knew she'd been uncomfortable for most of the time they spent travelling on the ship. Some part of him hated himself for having allowed his wife to talk him into returning to his home country, had he not agreed, his family wouldn't have spent three uncomfortable months on a ship.

Ichabod pulled the last of their luggage inside the room, closing the door shut and turning the key in the lock. No one in the inn would disturb them, but he needed all the privacy he could get with his family. They all deserved that much.

'I'm glad that when he wakes up, he will be able to play outside,' Ichabod said concerning his sleeping son. He awed at the way such a small person could adapt so easily to anything around him. He had joy in knowing that once his son awakened, the world would be his to explore once again.

'I thought we would die on that ship,' Abbie said. She just finished tucking their son into one of the single beds in the room. Fortunately, he wasn't one who moved around too much when he slept, which meant Abbie never worried that he would fall off a bed if he slept by himself.

'I dread making that voyage back home,' he agreed. He didn't want to put his family through that horrible experience for a while, it was much too uncomfortable and wearing.

'Let's not worry about that for now,' was her advice, looking at him with concern. Even in her own exhaustion, she couldn't keep from being herself, she couldn't stop wanting to make things better for him.

'Aren't you tired? Come to bed, rest with me. Tomorrow, we will talk.' Tomorrow was in fact the very day they were living in, it was the early afternoon, but to her lagged body -from the journey- that needed sleep, it was sleeping time, no matter what position the sun was in the sky. He didn't object, he was as exhausted as she and their son was, nothing was more welcome than the thought of getting decent rest, on a decent bed, alongside his beloved wife. Not worrying at all that he was still dressed in his proper attire, he followed the lead of his wife onto the bed, tucking Abbie into him and they were fast asleep in a few seconds.

The last time she felt this complete was on her wedding day. The reasons and the feelings had been different in their entirety back then, but it could be equalled to now. Ichabod's arm was tightly around her and she could smell him behind her, his scent wafted to her nostrils. Vaguely, she remembered him taking his place behind her to sleep, what she couldn't remember, was how and when their son had climbed into bed with them and how her arm had circled around him. Her guess was, he probably woke up and tried without success to wake them up, then giving up by joining them on their bed. So many times he'd done that, usually, he squeezed himself between them, but this time he tucked into his mother only. She didn't have a clue as to how long she slept, only that after her sleep, she felt different.

It had been so long ago that she slept decently, with the knowledge that her family had the comfort they deserved. The three months of travel on the ship had been the hardest three months of her life; in that time, she'd lost hope of ever arriving in England countless times, and much more, she worried that her son would lose his mind from boredom. Back home, he never sat still, he was never one who did nothing, there was always something he was doing. On the ship, his movements were restricted, there was hardly anything he could do, and he complained about it a lot. Ichabod, she didn't worry so much about, what with his reading and meeting with a group of men for a game in one of the much larger spaces on the ship, he had a prepared day, spending the larger part of his day with her of course. Her only real concern for him, was the sort of reality that would be waiting for him in England. She was optimistic for his sake, but she also knew that he should expect to be disappointed. She'd convinced him to come, because she knew he would never truly be at peace without trying to reconcile with his father. She saw the way he sometimes looked when he was with their son, and how he would talk about the things he used to do with his father, it was one of the reasons she pushed him to make the journey to England, to try to work out his relationship with his father.

'What day is today?' Only slightly, she jumped, she wasn't aware that he was awake, or if he knew that she'd opened her eyes.

'I don't know,' she answered. For all she knew, it could be next week, not that it bothered her anyway. She was happier and relaxed for the first time in three months, such things as the day of the week weren't in any of her concerns.

'I take it you slept well then.' The arm around her, tightened a little more, an action she interpreted as an attempted hug.

'The best sleep I've had since the morning we left home.' She wouldn't ask for more, not yet anyway.

'What would you like to do today, now that we've escaped that ship?' he whispered in her ear. At once, she knew exactly what he was asking, and she wanted it too, but their son was right there in the room with them, their wants would have to wait until they were in private and alone. She let out a laugh, partly to get rid of the light heat she felt at his words, 'Take a bath. Then maybe take a walk with my husband.' She wanted more than anything to see his birth land, he spoke so highly of it, that she wanted to see it the way she did in her imagination whenever he spoke of it. Of course, they couldn't stray further than then area of the inn (not until he met with his parents), but she wanted what little she could get at the moment.

'Are you certain you'd rather not stay in bed with your husband?' he pressed. She knew that he knew he was fighting for something he wasn't going to get, but she allowed him the pretence, he deserved it after three months of restriction.

'I would rather our son not see things he's not supposed to.'

'Very well,' he unwrapped his arm from around her, climbing out of bed, 'as you wish. But this day shall not pass by...' Not that she thought to, but she wouldn't let the day pass either. They would do what they needed to do all day long, and then she would make sure they found time for themselves.

'I'll hold you to that Mr. Crane,' she turned to face him.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd been putting it off, his wife knew it and he knew it. He only did it because he wasn't as ready as he thought he was. It was just that he now, couldn't put it off any longer, not when his beloved wife kept nagging him to stop putting it off. The work, the mental and emotional preparation he'd done on the ship to England, all came undone the moment he woke up on the fifth day of their arrival. His wife had finally grown tired of being restricted to only one part of the whole country, that she talked him into getting the talk with his parents over with. She didn't like that she couldn't go anywhere with him, lest by some chance his parents were coincidentally there. The atmosphere that would arise from that wouldn't be pleasant. Before he did anything important, Abbie advised him, he had to make his presence in the country known to his parents. Whether or not they welcomed him back, they could deal with later, but at least they would know that he was in the country. That way, if they bumped into him by any chance, it wouldn't be a surprise to see him.

'I'm not prepared for this,' he said to his wife. She was observing him put on the last of his fine clothes. Usually, she would help him get dressed, except today. She seemed determined to let him do everything for himself.

'You'll never be prepared,' she replied coolly. Although she was performing her detached role surprisingly well, he knew it was taking a lot from her to be there, present in that role. His wife thrived on helping him in whatever way she could, she was especially gifted at talking him into anything. It was, after all the reason they made the journey to England. Of course, he wanted to return to England more than she wanted him to, but had she not nudged him endlessly, they wouldn't have made the voyage. Her keeping her distance from him now, meant that she didn't want him to influence her into the same doubtful spirit he was in. She wanted him to face his fear today, not a day later.

'In that case,' he looked her directly in the eyes, 'why must I endure something I'm not prepared for?' What he was actually doing was, fishing for a way to get her on his side; he needed to put it off for just a day longer. A day wouldn't hurt anyone. If she agreed with him, his wish of postponing would be granted him.

'Because if you don't do it today, you will find a different reason everyday not to go. Listen...' at last she started walking to him (Ichabod smiled a little, glad that she decided to stop whatever act she was doing), 'I understand how you're feeling, but if you don't do this today, you might never have the strength to do it.' As always, his wife hit the nail on the head, she had the incredible gift of knowing him better than he could imagine. But, the truth still remained that he was terrified of his father's reaction. He'd been extremely close with his father when he was growing up. Even as a young man, getting ready to leave for the war, his father cherished him dearly. Ichabod always imagined it was because he was an only child. Whatever reason there had been for him and his father's closeness, Ichabod loved his father as equally, perhaps even more. So, often, he sought his father's approval in everything he did, which, thanks to his mother's gentleness and persuasive ways, he always received. He never imagined anything could come between him and his father. Until his defection did. Their very last encounter tore him apart, it was the thing that terrified him most about seeing his father again.

'I would feel better if you came with me,' he confessed. She was just out of his reach, if he reached out, he could pull her to him. Abbie saved him the trouble of doing it, she moved into him, giving him a look that said she agreed with him, at the same time softly rebuking him.

'That's overwhelming. It's one thing to mention you have a family, it's another to show up with said family without letting your parents know beforehand. Take one step at a time.' And there was the issue of her race. Although he knew his parents weren't racist, he wasn't sure how they would react to her being his wife. It was better if he didn't risk her at all.

'Why are you always right?' he wanted to know. Another thing he wanted to do was hold her in his arms until he was satisfied, and with her standing so close, he had more reason. Sometimes, just holding her made him feel better about the world. His mind didn't know how to exist without Grace Abigail anymore. If it ever came to a point where she was no longer with him, he would surely die.

She started to fix his coat buttons, 'Come on, you don't want to arrive late in the day. You have to get going. I'll be right here waiting for you to get back.' The way she always did, she sealed her promise with a light kiss to his lips. Ichabod didn't let her go so easily, instead, he held her to him by the neck, delivering to her a thorough kiss. He felt like he was going to face a monster, at least his last memory had to be fantastic. He could kiss her forever, the way she responded to him, though he doubted she would allow him out of going to see his parents. Abbie broke away from his lips, a small smile on her face, 'You need to go.'

'As you will my darling.' As much as he was anxious to see his parents, his father more specifically, he didn't want to see them. Constant worry that his father would shoot him to death at first sight, plagued him. However, he would never know the outcome of the meeting unless he went through with it. With a tiny kiss to Abbie's cheek and prolonged grasping of hands, Ichabod said goodbye to his wife. He was only a little sorry that his son was somewhere on the grounds playing with the innkeeper's daughter, making it impossible for him to say goodbye.

The innkeeper, Mrs. Lavinia –she preferred to be called by her first name- kindly offered their carriage to him. She was unbelievably fond of the Crane family, helping them out with whatever they needed and making sure they were always comfortable. On the way to his parents' home, he sorely missed Abbie's presence, it was her mark to shower him with reassurances when he was in doubt. He could use some of her talking down now, for all the anxiety he felt. It was funny, in the beginning of their marriage, it had been him who needed to gently ease her into things, to overcome certain fears that she had about their relationship amongst other things. Months later, she was the one who was taking control, knowing how to talk him into anything at all. At times, he still couldn't believe how blessed he was to have her as his wife, he'd never met anyone like her. If there was something he didn't regret, it was going over to the American side during the war. His father might hate him eternally for it, but no amount of hate was enough to make him regret what he did, because it gained him the only person he would ever love most in the world, with the exception of his son.

A little distance away from the home he grew up in (it was still as grand as ever, if not more), he asked the carriage to be stopped. He needed to gather himself together before they rode into the property. Once he was inside those large gates, there would be no going back. He took several breaths, telling himself inwardly that what he was doing was for the best, especially now that he had a family; it wouldn't be damaging for his son to know and love his grandparents they way he loved his other relatives back in America.

'We can proceed now,' he told the young man leading the carriage once he thought he gathered himself enough. The carriage began to move and the next thing he knew, they were in front of the gates of the castle-like manor. He couldn't stop the panic that suddenly filled him. He was actually going to do this, he couldn't escape it in any way. He tried exhaling deeply, but it didn't help, only when he reminded himself that this was as much for his family as it was for himself, did he manage to calm down a little. Traces of panic were still in him, the only difference was that the panic wasn't ruling him. Before he could change his mind, he stepped out of the carriage. He couldn't wait for Albert –the young man leading the carriage- to finish talking to the person on the other side of the gate. For all he knew, his parents had changed their staff and he wouldn't need to guess that if they did, the new staff wouldn't know him. He was surprised to see that the groundkeeper, Nimrod, was still with the Cranes. Nimrod served at the Cranes for as long as Ichabod could remember, tears welled in the now aging man's eyes when he laid eyes on Ichabod. All of a sudden, Ichabod felt something he forgot, familiarity. Since he stepped on England soil, he never once felt at home, nor did he feel like he belonged enough to want to stay long-term. But now, looking into the watery eyes (unaware that his own eyes were as water-filled) of Nimrod, he felt at home. Simply that. It was then that he realised how much he missed his family-all the servants included.

'Mr. Crane,' the aging man broke into a smile, 'Welcome home.'


	3. Chapter 3

Nimrod held one gate open for him to go through, but instead of going straight through it, for further entry into the grounds, he threw his arms around the much shorter man. He couldn't contain himself, Nimrod was the first real thing of his past that he could embrace, he didn't want to pass the chance up. This was his home, the place he grew up in and Nimrod had been a part of the life he once knew. It felt like such a lifetime ago, that he never got the chance to appreciate how terribly he missed it all. And with the family he now had, he never got much chance to miss anything from his old life.

'Mr. Crane,' Nimrod (trying not to choke on his own emotions) said in between trying to get air so he wouldn't suffocate. Ichabod's embrace was not as tight that he would be seeking for air, it was more a matter of suppressed longing for the aging man. Since the younger Mr. Crane joined the enemy's side, the older Mr. Crane didn't allow any mention of Ichabod Crane. Along with the servants who had the chance to know the younger Mr. Crane, Nimrod kept his feelings to himself, not daring even to talk about him with his fellow servants, lest Mr. Crane overheard them.

Immediately, Ichabod realised what he might be doing to the man and let go of him. Had he thought about what he did, he didn't believe he would've done any differently. His short embrace with the man he used to follow around in the garden when he had nothing better to do, felt like the first precious drops of rain in the desert; any living person would welcome them without holding back.

'Forgive me,' he began apologising, 'I was suddenly possessed by a need to welcome this moment, particularly you.' He had no shame in admitting that he missed his old life. He didn't miss it to the point of wanting to return to it no, it was a different sort of missing.

'I quite understand Mr. Crane,' he said, taking a step back, 'no need to apologise. It is very good to see you sir.' Words alone couldn't express how good it was to see Nimrod, therefore he didn't try to use words, he simply gave a sincere nod, hoping that Nimrod would understand what he meant. And now that that was over, he needed to move on, to the reason he came. Nimrod saved him the trouble of asking if his parents were home. 'They are both inside.'

'Thank you Nimrod.'

He started walking on, moving in the direction of the front door into the grand house. Although there was a different spirit in him, a spirit that wanted to move forward and finally step into the house he had fond memories of, there was a little hesitance as well. At the back of his mind, he still knew -feared- that his father might not accept him. But as Abbie always said to him, he would never know unless he took that chance. His wife's constant words on the subject of his father, gave him the courage to carry on. Even if he wanted to give up somewhere in the middle, he wouldn't. He wouldn't be able to look his wife in the face and tell her that he gave up, that wasn't the man he was. Whatever he would begin to feel after the moment the doors were opened for him, he wouldn't turn back without facing his father. For a few moments, he chose to only stand outside the door. Once again, he needed to gather himself, because apparently, he undervalued the size of his hesitation. If his heart could stop racing, that would help a great deal.

At last, he gathered enough courage to rap on the door, he didn't want to knock too loudly for the first meeting in years. In nervous anticipation, he waited for someone to come to the door. If there was one thing he knew about the staff in the Crane household, it was that they were trained not to tarry for any task given to them. It would only be a matter of small countable moments before someone came to get the door. In fact, he began counting, with the certainty that when he got to five, the door would be opened. Just as he thought, the door swung back a little after he got to three.

'Good afternoon sir,' the servant who opened the door said politely, 'Welcome to the Crane resi-' she froze mid-word. Ichabod waited for her to continue, but all she did was blink. Frowning slightly (because he couldn't recognise her), he studied her face, looking for anything that might tell him who she was. She didn't look the slightest familiar. He thought as hard as he could in little time about who she could be. In the end, he gave up trying, he would simply ask her. After he finds out why her behaviour suddenly changed.

'Pardon Miss,' he said, 'is there something the matter?'

She shook her head, 'No, sir. I...I shouldn't have stopped talking. Sir, please, you may enter.' He followed her inside the home he knew just as well as he knew his home with Abbie. She led him into the waiting area, and told him to wait while she got his father. He thanked her in an even tone, willing that she didn't hear how nervous he was. As he waited, he unwillingly started thinking of his father's last angry words, which only added to his nervousness. Was he doing the right thing? Was there really such a thing as forgiveness for him from his father. He wanted it, by all that was sacred to he wanted his father's forgiveness. If he didn't get it-

'Good afternoon?' a voice he recognised as his father's greeted in question. Ichabod had his back to the direction his father was in. Slowly, he rotated on the spot, his heart beating at a pace he didn't recognise. This was it, this moment would determine the sort of future he would have with his father.

'Good afternoon father,' he said carefully, keeping his eyes fixed on his father's face. In that first moment, Ichabod saw what he could only interpret as relief and awareness, awareness because he wasn't sure how to describe what he saw in his father's eyes. He was only certain that it was nothing negative. For that first moment, he felt welcomed, that his father didn't reject him after all. It made his heart stop, because the anxiety suddenly died. But, that first moment passed and his father's face clouded over darkly. It was as though that first moment didn't happen. To make the situation worse, his father's already thin lips thinned. His father's lips didn't thin unless he felt strongly against something. Ichabod's heart started beating again. He didn't know what to make of his father's attitude.

'Cornelia?!' It wasn't exactly that the older Crane shouted or commanded, it was more that he spoke when Ichabod thought he wouldn't, that he jumped. He'd been so concerned about his father that he forgot to think about his mother. Before she came into view, he heard her voice saying, 'I'm here.' She came from the same direction his father stood, Ichabod quickly guessed that she had been waiting in the next room for her husband's call. She didn't look at Ichabod first, her primary concern was her husband.

'Is something the matter,' she asked in a concerned voice, 'You sound...different. What has happened?' His mother's voice sounded exactly the way he remembered it, it was only that he didn't have the time to appreciate her voice or presence; he was too in a state.

'There's no one here,' he replied curtly. He said it looking at his wife, giving her no reason to look at Ichabod.

'I don't understand. Olivia said there was someone here to see you. Was she lying?'

Olivia? Ichabod couldn't believe it. The Olivia he knew was a short and small girl, barely ready to be called an adult. Had she really grown and changed that much that he couldn't recognise her?

His father's voice brought him back to the present. 'I don't see anyone here,' he said looking directly at Ichabod. Ichabod met his eyes and saw how his father truly felt. They would never reconcile. And that was when he broke inside. He felt himself shattering apart, every thread that kept him together was coming lose, it was nothing as he previously experienced.

Unnoticed by either man, Cornelia's eyes followed her husband's. She saw him, her only son, standing only a few steps away from her. The gasp that she let out was loud enough to get both men's attention, but it didn't.

'Ichabod,' she cried, at the same time squeezing her husband's arm to make sure she was awake. 'My dearest beloved,' Cornelia continued to cry, 'Is it truly you my son? Ichabod is that you? Isaac, is that my son?' Tears were flowing from her eyes as she looked from one man to another.

'Isaac?' she shook her husband again. As though he was forced to do so, the older Crane tore his eyes from Ichabod to his wife.

'There's no one here Cornelia,' he repeated coldly, 'I can't imagine that you're seeing ghosts.' With that, he turned and walked out. It was a deliberate action, acted out only to hurt Ichabod, but even though he knew what his father was doing, he didn't fail to feel the deeply penetrating sting that struck him. Ichabod watched his father walk away. It was the hardest thing for him to remain on the spot without crying out in anguish. He knew it would be hard, he didn't know it would distress him the way it was right now. He wanted nothing more than to sink his knees to the floor and cry out the pain he felt until he felt in no more. It was the gentle hand of his mother on his shoulder that made him notice her and briefly forget why he was hurting.

'My son,' she half whispered, half cried. Both her hands came to rest on either side of his face. 'Ichabod my son. You're home.' Silent tears fell from her eyes as she stroked his face, taking him in, accepting that he was truly there. Even more than before, Ichabod's heart tore. It tore for his mother's sadness, the sadness that he could see in his face, and it tore for the love he saw in her eyes as well. After his father, he didn't feel worthy of love. He didn't feel like anything, not even as a ghost, as his father had said.

He let out a great sob, 'Mother.'

'Oh, my son, my dearest son.' The words were immediately followed by a desperate embrace from his mother. She clutched onto him as though he would disappear if she didn't hold fast enough. In his anguish, his deep pain, he held onto his mother just as much as she did. She loved him and was welcoming him back, he told himself that that was all he needed; at least he didn't feel like nothing when his mother held him. To his father, he was obviously dead, never coming back to life...he had no business being in his father's house.

'Mother,' he tried tearing himself away from her with great difficulty. She refused to let him out of her grasp and for a moment, Ichabod didn't resist her. But then, he realised that receiving a smothering welcome from his mother was causing him more pain. He understood how his mother felt, she gave him life, of course she would be overjoyed to see him after so much time of not knowing whether he was alive or dead. He did understand, and yet, the longer his mother embraced him, the more he felt his father's rejection.

Ichabod struggled out of his mother's embrace, 'Mother, forgive me,' he said, his voice heavy with pain, 'Mother, please...'

One look on his face told her what he was thinking, she shook her head in frantic denial, 'No, no, no Ichabod. Please my son, you cannot leave. Please spare me the pain of watching you leave.' He would grant her what she wanted, but he couldn't, he simply couldn't.

'I cannot remain here any longer Mother. I would love to remain with you...' he hung his head for he felt tears welling up in his eyes; he didn't want his mother to see his tears.

'He's your father,' she cried desperately, using all she could to convince him to stay, 'He loves you. Pay no mind to the things he says.'

'Mother,' he looked up sharply, 'I cannot stay here. I don't exist here.' He let out a big sigh after his words, nothing would make him stay. His mother sighed too, a sign he took to mean that she resigned, 'Where are you staying?'

'Does it matter Mother?'

'It does my son, it matters,' was all she said. He knew his refusing to stay pained her, but he was pained himself, he had to nurse his own pain before he could nurse hers. However, he imagined giving her the name of the inn he was staying at, would ease some of her distress. Faltering a little, he gave her the name and then took both her hands in his.

'Thank you Mother.' He kissed her hands twice, showing her that he wasn't dismissing her from his life. Cornelia Crane's face contorted as she tried to keep her emotions together, 'I love you my son. Don't ever forget that.' They shared one last embrace before Ichabod let her go and walked out of the house.


	4. Chapter 4

She expected the worst from the beginning, even as she sent him out to go to his parents' home, she knew that he would be met by unpleasant words, if not treatment. The reason she pushed him so hard to go, was not so that he suffer heartache, rather that she knew he would never have peace if he didn't at least close that chapter of his life. Of course, she didn't want him to shut his parents out of his life, but if they weren't willing to accept him as the man he'd become, then he had to move on without them, knowing at least that he tried to make them see reason.

She expected a defeated man coming back to their lodging (and much, much later in the evening to be honest), but she never imagined that he would be broken as well. The man who opened the door quietly and stood in its way, wasn't the man she sent out earlier in the day. Abbie immediately knew, when she looked at him standing in the doorway, that she was partly responsible for him being broken. He had the appearance of a man who was to be executed for a crime he didn't commit. She'd never seen such an appearance on him before; his head was hung way too low, his hat barely caught in his hand and his entire body was slumped hopelessly, it was a wonder he was upright at all. Her heart tore for him, because she couldn't imagine what might've happened to make him that way. Without words of welcome or question, she went over to him at the door. She stood before him silently, it wasn't the time for words, words wouldn't do. To enter into his wounded soul, she had to coax him with her actions and love. Her hand reached out to direct his attention to her. Very slowly, he raised his eyes to hers. Her heart shot out at once. He'd been crying or more accurately, he'd been drowning in tears; his swollen eyes told her that much.

'Oh,' she breathed involuntarily, in the most punctured tone she'd ever heard herself use. This wasn't the man she knew as he husband, this was someone who had suffered great emotional pain. Even though she didn't know just how deep his pain ran, she understood his pain instantly, because her brave husband, Ichabod Crane, had been reduced to a small child, and the mother that she was, understood that pain of a child.

'He loathes me passionately,' he whispered, his eyes starting to well up. Quickly, so that he didn't break down in the door, she pulled him inside, shutting the door behind them. She didn't want the prying eyes and ears of anyone getting even a glimpse of her vulnerable husband. She led them to their son's bed, as it was the closest. As she sat down, her right hand grasped his, while he towered over her; even though it couldn't really be called towering in his state. Asking him to sit with her, she squeezed his hand. At first, he only let the hat in his hand drop to the floor and Abbie watched it roll a little way from them, but after a moment, he conceded to her gentle probing. Instead of taking a seat beside her, he sunk onto the floor at her feet. It would've otherwise been demeaning if he wasn't extremely broken. He rested his head just above her thigh and she could immediately feel the water of his tears soaking into the material of her dress. As though wounded and clinging onto the last he had for salvation, he wrapped an arm around her leg. In that moment, of his complete surrender to his pain in her presence and having him at her feet as if he was fallen with no strength to stand, Abbie knew exactly what to do. In the past, he saw her through painful situations in the same way. Experience taught them that when other was in pain, the simple company and contact of the other helped them make it through. Holding onto the other while they allowed the pain to freely flow through them, provided for something that wasn't quite comfort or relief; only a rare form of alleviation. With that on her mind, she laid one hand on his back, the other around his neck to keep him firmly where he was. For now, when all he needed was to express his pain, it was all she could do for him. Her touch, on a normal day did wonders for him, now would be no different; she would use her small contact to be present with him, sharing in his pain. Abbie nursed him that way for a period, ignoring the stabbing feeling in her heart that was the result of her husband's pain. She knew not to ask him anything; when he was ready, he would tell her himself. Just as her leg was beginning to feel numb, Ichabod lifted his head a little, not enough to look her in the eyes though, and said, 'My father feigned not to see me. He called me a ghost...I'm dead to him, long ago buried.'

After careful thought of how to answer, she soothed, 'He's your father. He loves you...but your actions hurt him,' she paused to allow him the time to digest her words. More than anything, she wanted to take his pain away, to comfort him, but that didn't mean she had to coat the truth with pretty little words. They didn't lie to each other, neither was deceptive protective shielding ever what they wanted from the other.

'You hurt him,' she continued, running her hand up and down his back, 'You hurt him and he wants you to feel that pain too.' In the deepest of her heart, she was sure that his father didn't really hate him, she only had to make him understand that. Ichabod laid his head back on her, 'My mother told me the same thing,' he said quietly. Abbie was grateful that he wasn't shedding tears anymore. She thought about it, if his mother said the same thing, then he had more reason to believe it. To persuade him as best as she could, she lifted his face for their eyes to meet. If he was looking into her eyes when she spoke, the probability of him accepting her words was extremely high. His eyes were still watery, but he held her stare.

'Then you ought to believe it,' she requested gently. With a breaking voice, he replied, 'I can only hope to have that optimism...what I wouldn't give to have the hope that my father would once again love me as he did...all I have is a broken spirit and the knowledge that my father detests me for all time.'

'He doesn't ha-' she began to say as Ichabod freed his face from her hand, laying it back on her thigh. He cut her off, 'Do not say it,' he begged, 'You did not see the look in his eyes, nor the way he spoke of me, as though I wasn't there.'

'All right,' she agreed. Once again, she allowed him the time that he needed in silence. Her thoughts led her to a previous time back home when she'd been in a vulnerable position. Ichabod hadn't exactly tried to change her mind, instead, he supported her, only pointing out the truth, which led to her accepting that she had to change her mind about the whole matter. She never thought of it that way before, but now she realised that she had to do the same with him. A relationship with his father was obviously important to him, she would help him get that back, whatever it meant doing. Before she said anything however, someone started knocking on the door. Ichabod tensed just she gasped lightly. He brought his head up in question.

'Mrs. Crane?' Abbie recognised the voice as that of Mrs. Lavinia. 'Excuse me, Mrs. Crane, but I have a letter for your husband,' the owner of the inn spoke in her usual warm tone. Abbie trusted her, but she still didn't want anyone knowing about her family troubles.

'Coming,' she replied, but made no move to get up, 'Just a minute.' Bless the language, Abbie thanked quietly, at least that way, Mrs. Lavinia knew that she would be waiting a little before she was received.

'I should get that,' she whispered to him. Fortunately, he understood. Not wasting more time, he detached himself from her, then stood up. Always the gentleman, he offered her his hand to help her up. Abbie took it readily, but didn't let go just yet.

'I'll be right back,' she assured him. There wasn't a need to do so, it was only that they'd been interrupted. He needed to know from her that they weren't done. She hated the interruption, because there was no guarantee that they could have that moment again. His response was a small nod, and a tiny kiss on her palm; a thank you. Abbie quickly made her way to the door, then opened it just enough to see the innkeeper's entire frame.

'Surprise!'

For a moment, Abbie thought Mrs. Lavinia had changed her voice to a child's. She looked at the woman in confusion, until she remembered that her son was often with Mrs. Lavinia and her daughter. Smiling, she looked down, and there was her son, two flowers in his tiny hands and eyes identical to hers looking eagerly up at her.

'Are those for me?' she asked him.

'Yes,' he grinned happily, holding the flowers up for her to take.

'He's a lovely boy,' Mrs. Lavinia praised. Abbie couldn't agree more, she sometimes wondered how she had such a wonderful child as her own.

'Thank you,' she said.

'I said I was bringing your husband's letter and he decided to come with me. He said he wanted to bring you flowers,' the other woman explained as she looked at Abbie lifting her son off the ground.

She held the letter out, 'It just arrived.' Abbie took it.

'Thank you, Mrs. Lavinia.'

'My pleasure. Are we still cooking dinner tonight?'

'We are,' Abbie promised. She waited for Mrs. Lavinia to turn her back before she closed the door. Knowing that what was before, was definitely ruined, she groaned inwardly. Between the letter and her father-addicted son, there was no way of going back to where they'd been before they were interrupted.

'Daddy!' If she hadn't been keeping a firm hold, she was sure he would've fallen from her arms. She could never quench the thirst her son had to be with his father.

'Noah!' she exclaimed, at the same time placing him on the ground, allowing him to run to his father. Ichabod, could also never resist his son, at times, Noah was the perfect medicine for him. Abbie watched Noah run to his father. When Ichabod gathered their perfect son into his arms, she couldn't keep from tearing up. He was embracing his son as if they were meeting after a long period of absence. She felt his pain oozing out from him all over again, with the way he was holding Noah. Perhaps he was communicating the way in which he wanted his father to treat him or he was making a promise to himself that he would never cause his son the pain his father was causing him. Whatever it was, she let him have it. He needed at the very least that little.

'Daddy can we go fishing?' Noah asked after some time.

A small smile appeared on her lips, her son was truly precious; he had no idea what was going on, but somehow he was the healing that his father needed. She didn't even know if there was a river or pond nearby. What she did know, was that Ichabod would do anything to find a river for them to go fishing.

'If your mother says yes,' Ichabod reluctantly placed Noah down. He looked a tiny bit sober, all right for now. Abbie had more reason to love her son, he did one thing that she couldn't do for Ichabod.

'You can go, I'll cook the fish for dinner later on,' she answered before Noah could do his begging routine of clinging onto her leg until she gave in. Taking advantage of the temporary chaos of celebration of father and son, she unsealed the letter, with only one thing in mind; the address of the sender.

Crane's Manor. Signed, Mr. And Mrs. Crane.

'Ichabod,' she called, her eyes staring at the names that signed the letter. Her heart rate picked up, a sudden fear taking over her. Why would the Cranes be sending Ichabod a letter? What was it about?

'The letter's from your parents.'


End file.
